


The Lucky Hand

by binz, shiplizard



Series: Queer Fancies [2]
Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: 19th Century, Aftercare, Age Difference, Age of Sail, Ageplay, Cards, Community: kink_bingo, Confession, Cuddling, Daddy Play, M/M, Peace of Amiens, Penance - Freeform, Punishment, Service Top, Spanking, Tears, The kink is coming from inside the canon, Top Drop, Whist, negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Peace of Amiens, a chance meeting between Pellew and his favourite old lieutenant gets a little… intense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lucky Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spanking/paddling square for Kink Bingo 2013.
> 
> We’re stealing some of the characterization of Pellew from the A&E series for what is otherwise a book-only fic. For those who haven’t seen the A&E series, Robert Lindsay plays Pellew with a great hunger for scenery and LARGE HAM. Like his non-fictional counterpart, A&E Pellew is willing to use impressment to get what he wants: in this case, all the best lines from Keane, Parry, and Cornwallis. And by God does he love Hornblower-- like a son, he swears, not very convincingly.
> 
> Speaking of like a son, we were going to approach the ageplay with more subtlety and slower buildup, and then we remembered oh yes, canon. When you have a guy whose second marriage begins in book six with his wife-to-be calling him pet names her nurse called _her_ when she was little, and when she’s just moved on to just calling him ‘my baby’ by book ten, maybe the groundwork is already there. 
> 
> ...oh yeah, and the actual text actually says this: 
> 
> _When he yielded to her, when he put off his protective armour, he wanted to be her child as well as her husband; unconsciously he wanted the reassurance that, exposed and naked as he was, she would be true and loyal to him like a mother to her child, taking no advantage of his defenceless condition. The last reserve melted; they blended one into the other in that extremity of passion which they could seldom attain._ \- **Lord Hornblower**
> 
> Fic or Forester? ...always Forester
> 
> Contains mild homophobia and some self-kink shaming. All infidelity is pre-negotiated and consensual because escapist fantasy.

It was the most pleasurable evening of whist Pellew had enjoyed since the peace. The wealth of players washed ashore with each paid off ship forced a man to sift through the detritus to find the quality, but he’d found the lion’s share here at the Long Rooms. He’d made a particularly rare find tonight; he was again glad he’d pardoned himself from his earlier company once he’d spied the familiar form at the fire. 

Horatio Hornblower had changed little since his days as a lieutenant on the _Indefatigable_ , still gangly and fine-boned, his features dominant and surprisingly pleasant when arranged together, a mix of large dark eyes and hawkish nose and full lips. But a second glance at how much of those fine bones showed at the wrists of his jacket, at the hollowing of the cheeks and the sharpening of the already sharp cheekbones, told a story of hard times and little food, and Pellew added most of his share of their winnings to Hornblower’s before he handed the notes over. 

“The win was yours,” he said, before Hornblower could realise what he had done, or refuse it. “Now, sir, if I may impose on your time further-- have you dined?” The third and fourth from their table had excused themselves after the last round, but Pellew could not wish his reacquaintance with Hornblower to end so quickly. The boy had been fine company on the old _Indefatigable_ ; shy, but clever and quick thinking, and as good a friend as Pellew could have found in a junior officer-- once the poor boy’s initial awe of authority had settled enough to allow him to express himself. A sweet lover too; open with his affection, eager to please, never expecting any extra allowances or freedom from discipline for being the subject of his captain’s admiration.

Hornblower’s pleasure was clear on his face, but he suppressed it, glancing quickly toward the proprietor of the establishment as he approached on his circuit of the room. “I’m afraid I have a prior commitment, Sir. It was good to make your acquaintance again.” It might have been a mere formality, but it was not. The genuine emotion showed in his dark eyes; Pellew did not think it was just wishful thinking that made it seem as if Hornblower was as displeased to let their evening end as he was. 

“You are departing, Commodore?” The Marquis was at his elbow now. “Please, do not ‘urry yourself. But _pardonnez-moi_ , I must speak with this young man a moment. Your coat will be ready in a few moments.” 

The Marquis rested his hand on Hornblower’s shoulder, ushering him to a secluded corner by the entranceway. A young servant appeared beside Pellew to lead him to the fire, just far enough from Hornblower and the Marquis that Pellew couldn’t quite smell the Marquis’ perfume. 

Pellew’s greatcoat was warmed to a treat when it was brought to him, and Pellew slipped it on gratefully; it was a cold winter and a brisk wind coming in off Spithead made the night colder still. The Marquis was still speaking quietly with Hornblower a few feet away, and Pellew waited, unwilling to let Hornblower slip through his fingers so easily. At the least he would find out when he was free, and monopolize his time with all the self-assurance that befitted a superior officer, and an old friend and lover even more so.

He paused-- then edged closer, turning to face the fire and keeping close to the wall. It wasn’t precisely that he distrusted the emigre, but he did have Hornblower’s interests in mind, and wanted to know what his situation was. He had too much self possession to feel very bad about eavesdropping; it was his prerogative to keep an ear out about young sailors. 

They were speaking quietly, but Pellew was close enough to hear the accented voice as the Marquis said to Hornblower: “It is good for a young man to move in such circles.” He stilled some objection from Hornblower: “ _Mais non_ ; do not worry. My establishment will not crumble in one night with your absence, Lieutenant ‘Ornblower.” 

Another quiet objection, some point of contention or worry that was silenced by a wide wave of the Marquis’ hand. 

“I am not a tyrant, _mon ami_. Sunday the same as always. This captain, ‘e will perhaps remind London about you; then you will be able to patronize my rooms as a commander.” 

So the Marquis knew about that damnable failure of the Admiralty to confirm the young officer as commander. But what sort of engagement led Hornblower to go begging his pardon to leave a night of cards? It was suspicious stuff. 

“Thank you,” Pellew could just hear Hornblower answer, stiffly, before he stepped back to give Hornblower a chance to compose himself. 

Hornblower had seen him listening-- that was obvious enough-- his face was hangdog as he stepped over to the fire, and he avoided Pellew’s gaze. “Sir, if your offer remains open, my previous engagement is no longer a concern. I have not dined, and would be glad to do so in your company.”

“Of course, of course. You won’t escape your old captain that easily. Chilly night,” Pellew noted conversationally. “You’ll want your greatcoat before we go; where’s that servant gone?” The boy had only given Hornblower his hat, and then disappeared. 

“I did not bring my coat tonight, sir.” 

“What’s this? Nonsense.” 

Hornblower’s face showed perfect agony for a moment, and then he smiled, wanly, thinly: “I find the chill bracing after so long in the Indies; my jacket will do. Where are you staying, Captain?” And with that, he stepped unconcernedly out into the night, holding himself stiff with an obvious effort. 

Pellew had rooms in a good house on High Street, towards which he directed Hornblower by means of a friendly arm about the lean shoulders. Hornblower shrank away for a moment, and then slowly leaned towards the shelter that Pellew provided. He was a solid mass now, compared to when he’d been a midshipman; had filled out into himself, still slender, but muscular and well built. Still too slim to be out unprotected in this weather, though!

“Unlucky at cards?” Pellew asked, bluntly. The wind would whip away the words before anyone who should not hear would be able to catch them. 

“Not so much, sir.” Hornblower was shivering faintly against him. “I win more often than I lose.” 

“A commendable thing, if you can do it. You always were a damn’d good player,” Pellew said, because his memories were pleasant, and he recalled with fondness that Hornblower had come specially recommended as a good fourth for whist. “But come on, lad, you’re chilled to the bone. Where’s your coat?” 

Hornblower’s voice was steady, and resigned, as he obediently laid bare his misfortunes. “I had a run of bad luck, sir. I was forced to leave it in pawn. I will be able to recover it after tonight.” 

He had suspected as much, but it was still a pretty bad thing, for such a bright man to resort to it. He hoped the debt didn’t go further. “It must’ve have been recent; you had your pay last week, didn’t you?” 

“No, sir.” And at Pellew’s astonished look: “I am on stoppages, sir. I drew a commander’s pay on my way from Jamaica to home waters.” 

Pellew understood at once, and damned the Admiralty for it-- they were taking that pay out of him now, the brave lad, as if he hadn’t earned it. Well, Pellew would go drop a very firm word in Parry’s ear-- but peacetime had been a chance for the government to pull the purse-strings tight, and even Pellew’s influence wouldn’t secure his confirmation with any speed. 

“You might’ve asked a loan, against receipt of your pay. You might even accept a gift from an old friend,” Pellew said. 

“No, sir.” Hornblower was tall-- perhaps even taller than when he’d come back, so startlingly grown up, out of that Spanish prison. He looked down at Pellew, his jaw set. “I will make my way, sir. Like any man who does not have friends in high places.” 

Affection recommended him to renew the offer, to press it-- but something greater, the respect he felt for this young man, led him to simply nod and take him at his word. “Brave man.” 

“Thank you. And thank you for the offer, sir. It is as good as money to know-- that I have your respect. That there are people in the world kind enough to offer me favors.” 

Once they were safely up into Pellew’s lodgings, and supper ordered for both, Hornblower went to the fire to warm his pale hands. “My friend Lieutenant Bush wasn’t very well pleased to know that the Marquis gives me a stipend to play cards in his establishment-- I make a regular fourth for some of his patrons. I hope that you-- are not offended?” 

That was the meaning of that little conversation! But Hornblower was looking at him with something like shame, and Pellew hastened to reassure him. “Nothing like it. Though I hope you needn’t be paid to engage in a game with me-- hope I haven’t become such a dull player!” 

“No, sir. As formidable an adversary and as gratifying a partner as a man could dream of.” Now this was a fond speech, a little unguarded, but relief and admiration had loosened Hornblower’s tongue and he was gazing at Pellew as he once had as a lieutenant and a midshipman before that, a bit awed and with such loyalty and love that it would have disarmed even a stronger man than Pellew. 

A knock at the door and the presentation of supper prevented Pellew from doing what he would really liked to have done, which was to tug Hornblower into his arms, kiss the admiring face, feel the old pliance and new weight of that lean body-- he checked himself. Hornblower could do with a good supper. There was no need to be impatient, or uncivilized. 

He took the liberty of dismissing the servant, and helping a blushing Hornblower into his chair with a very familiar hand at his back. The hot glance he received left him in little doubt that his attentions were welcome. That was a relief; he had been entirely ready to eat a friendly dinner and let the man go unmolested-- but he would have regretted it exceedingly.

As they sat together, he felt a slim foot find his under the table, and lay casually on top of it. That was very agreeable. ...His wife, he thought with a secret smile, would be delighted. Hornblower featured in her favourite tales of his indiscretions, when they came back together to tell each other their dirty little secrets. She did not know his name-- no, not true. Pellew had never told her his name, but she was clever and kept abreast of naval gossip. She would know the name of her husband’s favourite, though only she knew how deeply that preference went. 

Pellew found that despite his anticipation, he had a very hearty appetite. 

They made a good dinner, had some merry chatter: the subject turned to Hornblower’s feats, a subject that the young man rued and the older man delighted in. It was as good fun as ever to tease Hornblower, to feign disapproval and then startle him with praise. 

“I have heard how you stormed that fort at Samana,” Pellew said, with a theatrical brandish of his glass. 

Hornblower paused guiltily, large dark eyes fixing on him with apprehension. Time hadn’t dulled the edge of the young man’s worry. 

“It was a reckless thing, sir, damn reckless.” He paused, seeing the effect these words had on Hornblower-- the immediate crestfallen look, the stiffening of his shoulders and jaw. He would not make any excuse or ask any mercy, the upright boy. Though a boy no longer: it had been nearly eight years now, since he was a gangling midshipman on the old _Indefatigable_. Hornblower was fully twenty-six, by God-! An accomplished officer now, with a name that was starting to be heard in the best circles, little by little-- and he had as little conception of his achievements as ever. Pellew thought of how he had refused money: he had grown up honourable and proud, too. 

Yet here he was before Pellew, falling back into sweet boyish manners, the sweeter for being displayed on that man’s frame and man’s face. 

“It seemed the best thing at the time, sir,” said Hornblower, voice thick with dread, and Pellew’s heart melted before he could carry the game any further. 

“It was a well done thing,” he said, with the most genuine approbation. 

It seemed his powers to soothe Hornblower’s fears were still as keen as ever-- immediately the stiff posture melted into relief, Hornblower’s long face relaxing into a shy, lop-sided smile. 

“A bit more confidence wouldn’t go amiss, my lad,” said Pellew, with open affection-- that smile had shot warmth all through him. “You shouldn’t let me bully you out of your triumphs.” 

“But there were failures, sir,” Hornblower said, and wisely helped himself to another few bites of kidney pie before elaborating. “We lost a good deal of discipline with the men in the first charge-- and we tried to use red hot shot against the ships in the bay, and I didn’t _think_ how metal would expand when heated too much. I nearly cost the entire effort by it!” 

“God’s teeth, you’re not meant to be perfect,” Pellew said, laughing a little at the very serious way the other man took this slight setback, an unfamiliarity with red-hot shot that would be natural to a sailor. “You won the day, with your plan and your negotiations with the Dons.” 

“You would have done better,” said Hornblower, with a faith that was both ridiculous and quite touching. 

“Nonsense. You mustn’t upbraid yourself for every little mishap.” Pellew’s eyes danced with mirth, and his voice took on a growl: “That is my work.” There was a bit too much licentiousness in his voice, he realised, and added quickly, “Or whoever your superior might be,” but Hornblower barely seemed to hear him, one long-fingered hand settling on the tablecloth and trembling slightly, the pretty cupid’s bow lips parting just a little. 

Pellew was struck, then, by a thought he had long tried not to think. He had certain proclivities-- once indulged by his dear wife, though in her more dignified age she neither wielded the birch nor accepted it, and he would never quibble with her choice. Yet he still desired it; he shielded the junior persons of his admiration from his leanings; that way lay a breakdown of real discipline, if the illusion of discipline was invoked too much in play. 

But Hornblower was a grown man, one no longer under his command. If he wanted it-- if he wanted to be penitent...

Pellew told himself he was a fool, and had read too much into a small gesture. 

“I could question you about your conduct tonight,” he said jovially, testing the waters and making himself more of a fool at that. “Apply a bit of discipline. But I doubt that’s what you came here for!” 

But there was the pink tip of Hornblower’s tongue, appearing to moisten his lips. “No, sir.” he said, voice hoarse. 

“No grating and no lash besides, to dole out penance properly,” Pellew went on, watching him carefully. “And I shouldn’t think a king’s officer would care to be taken over another man’s knee like a boy.” 

“No, sir,” and now Hornblower’s voice had threads of strain, the eyes fixed on him showing shame. Pellew realized too late that the young man was hearing condemnation and mockery rather than the offer that had been intended, and without meaning to he reached across the width of the table to settle his hard hand above that trembling one. 

“And if I were to do it, it would say more about my character than your own,” he said. 

“Sir?” 

Pellew smiled at him, stroking that bony hand gently with his thumb. “I wish you’d be careful what you said. There are men in the world who would take a good deal of pleasure in doling out a bit of punishment to a lovely thing like you.” He withdrew his hand, lifted his glass and toasted, and while it was dangerous to speak the words, it was not right that Hornblower make all the concessions tonight. “I am one of them, God forgive me.” 

Hornblower’s eyes flashed up, his mouth gaping, and Pellew went on before he could speak, saying casually: “Though I wouldn’t lay a hand on someone who didn’t find as much pleasure in the receiving. Let me offer you some of this Claret.” 

Pellew poured him a bit and drank his own, letting Hornblower’s quick wit work; he was in a world of his own, all but ignorant to Pellew’s presence. His mind must be spinning-- with fears, perhaps, or wishes, desires. Constructing a polite refusal? Very probably. Anything was possible. Pellew still barely let himself hope. 

They finished dinner and Pellew took port wine for himself-- Hornblower refused fastidiously-- and they had a little bit of idle conversation over the latest number of the _Naval Chronicle_ and the chances of a lasting peace. They were conversations the both of them would have had a dozen times, but would have been pleasant to have with one another, were their minds not otherwise occupied. 

“I have a great deal to answer for,” was Hornblower’s opening volley. 

“I think you give yourself credit for an astonishing list of sins,” was Pellew’s reply, though in a softened tone. “But would you like the reckoning, there’s the question.” 

“I don’t know.” Hornblower had his hands folded in his lap, was wringing them together slowly as he thought. “I don’t know. But I want--” and then silence. 

“Do you, by God.” Pellew put his quarterdeck growl into it, and saw Hornblower’s shiver of pleasure. A man could get properly drunk with the power he held over that slender body. 

He was on his feet before he even considered rising, closing the small distance between them. “You want to answer for it. You want discipline meted out.” He circled Hornblower’s chair, his feet leading him as easily as if the room were a ship’s deck, letting his voice come up from deep in his throat, and delighted in the way Hornblower fought himself to stay still, to not watch as he was circled. He could not conceal the quickening of his breath, the way his tongue kept flicking to his lips, or the flush rising up his neck. His perspective offered him another advantage; Hornblower had been handsome when he was younger, and he had only grown more so. Pellew wanted to test the strength in his body, the roundness of those shoulders, the narrowness of his hips.

It was a few quick steps to the door to lock it, a few back to stand in front of Hornblower, glaring down as if he’d just caught him committing the stupidest error. Hornblower stared up at him, as unsure as any midshipman caught out, but his dark eyes were shining, wanting-- it made Pellew’s blood hot, his skin prickle as if he’d just come in from the wind. “Then you shall have it,” he promised, voice gentled, arms held open.

Hornblower came up as if pulled by unseen hands and instantly yielded-- to his arms, to his lips, and this was the man who’d surged up over the decks of _Renown_ to retake her, this was the man who’d contrived the unconditional surrender of the Spanish forces in Haiti, a fighting man in his prime, and somehow this was still Pellew’s dear lad, his favourite midshipman. 

And Pellew was not too old, yet, to hook an arm under those long legs and haul him up-- though his body gave a harder complaint than it would have, eight years back, and it was fortunate it was only a few steps over to a sturdy armchair, upon which Pellew fell back, Hornblower atop him. 

They had barely managed to stop kissing through the entire maneuver, didn’t stop either as between them they contrived to arrange Hornblower more securely across his lap, his knees hooked over one arm of the chair, his back against the other. Long fingers stole up to steal the tie in Pellew’s hair, and Pellew grumbled into his lover’s mouth. 

“The cheek of you, sir,” he said, as Hornblower reared back, equally apprehensive and thrilled. “The very cheek, how you must _want_ a beating.” 

Hornblower’s eyes were dark and they twinkled with mischief. “No, sir!” Even at play, that was all the plea for clemency that he could summon. But he could not keep a wild smile from flickering at his lips, and his cheeks and neck and the tips of his ears were stained red.

Pellew shook his hair out and bared his teeth, knowing he must look a perfect fright, and Hornblower’s reaction was everything that could be wished-- the shudder, the gasp, the ecstatic squirm in his arms and tighter grip around his shoulders. Hornblower kissed him-- hard, hungry, trembling. 

“My dear lad,” Pellew said, when he could find breath to do anything but kiss Hornblower, his lips, his face, his neck, his hair. He had to kiss him again after, too delighted by the feeling of Hornblower’s familiar shy, pleased smile, of his lean body tucked up into his lap, wriggling and happy. It was enchanting how much he hadn’t changed, and how much he had: broader and firmer under Pellew’s roaming hands, and confident in his own touches, bold and ever so clever, making Pellew groan, his body flushing with heat and desire.

“Sir.” Hornblower contrived, despite his advantage in elevation, to look out from under his lashes. Then his smile became natural. “Edward.” 

“Such familiarity,” Pellew snarled, and then grinned, because Hornblower had never felt free to use his name before-- had clung to ‘Captain’ and to ‘Sir’. Which the neither of them had much minded at the time, but it was a new sensation to feel on even ground. “I like it. But you’ll pay for it all the same.” 

“Only your hand?” Hornblower asked, and damn his eyes for coming to the terms of it _now_ when Pellew only wanted to dandle him and kiss him and cosset him and then swat his lean bottom until it glowed and then cosset him more. 

“Only my hand. Though maybe you’ll learn to like a caning, you dirty-minded little reprobate--” 

“No.” There was a queer note there, a tautness in Hornblower’s voice. “Not that. Not after Wellard--” 

Whatever he meant to say was clipped away, and Pellew judged it better not to ask. He nodded soberly. “Then only my hand. This hand.” He chucked the younger man’s chin with it. “Call me Edward again and tell me you know that it’s all play, now.” 

“I do know it, Edward. I do.” His eyes were still a little wild. He was off in his own mind as he’d sometimes been before battles. 

“Just you keep it in mind, Horatio,” Pellew told him. “And now off with you-- to the bed. I’ll bend you across her for lack of a cannon.” A bit more rasp in his voice, for effect: “You know what you’ve got coming; no wriggling out of it now.” 

Horatio trembled, shaking like it reached his bones, and stared wide-eyed over at the bed, his grip on Pellew’s shoulders tightening. 

“Oh-ho?” Pellew asked, widening his eyes, arching his brows in a play of surprise. “What’s this? Disobeying orders? Why aren’t you moving, Mister Hornblower?”

Hornblower gave another real shudder, but his eyes were still alight-- he made as if to bolt, Pellew made as if to catch him, and they grappled a second. Pellew felt the unyieldingness of lean muscle, and realized suddenly that he would not want to ever have to fight him in earnest. 

“The bed, now, or it’ll go harder for you!” he rasped in low tones, and the resistance melted like foam. Hornblower let himself be dragged to the bed and bent across it, submitted meekly as Pellew stripped his jacket and neckcloth, hauled his trousers and smallclothes down to hobble his knees.

The year of peace had faded his tan to pallor seldom seen on a navy man, but seeing this hidden flesh, it was obvious how brown his hands and face still were; his legs and back were creamy white in comparison. And moreso his arse-- what a surprisingly well-rounded one he had, for such a slender, gangling man-- well rounded, dimpled, and absolutely sinful. 

Quiet, furtive liaisons in dingy portside taverns and a few dangerous moments snatched in the cabin of the _Indefatigable_ had never given Pellew a chance to view the thing in its glory. Now he had a soft bed, wax candles to shed light on it, to really give it its due. There was a little roll of fat under the body of the main, nestled between buttocks and thighs, that had somehow survived into adulthood-- this he pinched wickedly, and got a sharp gasp. Hornblower’s thighs trembled, then stilled; he was biting his full bottom lip as he tried not to cringe away from his tormenter. 

“There’s a good lad,” Pellew said. “Hold still. I’ll stand for no disobedience, now. You’ve earned your punishment and you must take it.”

Hornblower’s muscles tensed, the dimples bobbing as his buttocks flexed and released, and for a moment Pellew heard him hold his breath with the effort. He timed his first slap to Hornblowers exhale, and was rewarded with a sharp gasp and little involuntary sound he could just hear over the crack of his palm against Hornblower’s bottom. It sent shivers racing through him, warmed his belly as neatly as brandy, and he brought his hand down again quickly, popping another red handprint over the one already rising on Horatio’s pale arse.

“That is for your abysmal failure to grasp the workings of heated shot,” Pellew growled, ridiculously. “Confess the rest, now.” 

He couldn’t have answered quickly enough to keep up with Pellew’s rhythm; Pellew brought his hand cracking down on Hornblower’s other cheek, his palm starting to wake up, and listened with satisfaction to Horatio’s choked cry. “That was an order, Mister Hornblower. Answer sharply now.”

“I-- I was ambitious unbefitting a junior officer!” Horatio gasped, ending on almost a shout when Pellew slapped at the back of his thighs. 

“Yes?” Pellew pinched at that little roll of fat again, grinning broadly at the way it made Horatio squirm, his thighs jerking and pressing together. Oh, he was a darling lad. “Disgraceful, most unbecoming. Tell me.”

He smacked Horatio’s arse again as he inhaled, causing his words to trip out in a rush. “At Samana! Lieutenant-- Buckland-- was in command--” 

“And you led him about,” Pellew growled. “You were high-handed about it, were you?” 

“Captain-! Aye-aye, Captain.” Hornblower was panting with the effort of not screaming it. 

“Moderate your tone, there.” Even here they had to be a little quiet-- he couldn’t have the shouts of agony and pleasure he would have otherwise delighted in. He doled out another smack, and another, admiring how the white flesh reddened and Hornblower’s legs shook. “Take it like a man.” 

“Aye-aye, Captain.” A change was coming over Hornblower now: Pellew had been watching intently for it. The wild light was back in his eyes-- like a man fighting mad, but instead of steeling him it was loosening his bones as he bent across the bed. His long-fingered hands clawed the sheets and released. 

Pellew had meant to let him breathe a moment, but those dark eyes met his, and Hornblower said, a little pleading: “I provoked a duel when I was midshipman. Deliberately.” 

He cracked his hand down, almost perfectly over the first handprint he’d left, brightening it, raising the thin pink welt surrounding it, and carefully watched Hornblower’s face, his eyes dazed and wet, something almost like a smile in his expression. “Shameful. And you a king’s officer. You deserve this and more.” The pop of his hand caught the curve of Hornblower’s bottom, jerking his hips forward in a bestial rut. Hornblower grunted-- deep in his throat, fully sexual. 

“Oh, Captain.” He sounded not at all like himself. He sounded thick with pain and want. It was making Pellew a little wild himself-- he caught himself pressing the flat of his palm against his groin, only enough pressure to tease him. He had better save himself. 

“Does it sting, my boy?” 

“Yes, sir.” He looked back over his shoulder. “I should like some more.” He straightened his legs and arched his arse up. 

“You should _like_ , don’t tell me what you should like.” The grate in Pellew’s voice sent a shudder all up and down him, to beautiful effect. “Tell me what you deserve, you little sinner.” 

Hornblower surprised him, shoving up to meet his next smack, and again, waiting for the next and panting as if it were Pellew’s hips slapping his arse and not his hand. Pellew made the next smack softer, a quarter of the strength of those previous, and at Hornblower’s little sound of protest, brought his hand down again with a sharper crack than he had yet. His shoulder was starting to burn, the muscles of his back warming with each crack of his palm. His mind was like a spyglass not quite true, hazy with desire one moment, focused and sharply clear the next, all his concentration on Hornblower.

“Punishment, sir. I-- deserve to be punished. Please.”

“Why.”

“I deserve it, sir. Penance. I had-- oh, Captain. I had thoughts about redcoats. Carnal thoughts.” He gave a little shudder, a tremor of pure want running from the top of his head to his thighs, ending in a needy arch up into Pellew’s hand as it cracked down. His voice was as distant as his eyes, deeply wanting and coming from somewhere deeper than just where he was, bent over Pellew’s hired bed. “When we took the 43rd foot to France. I wanted them, sir. Every one.” 

“Carrying out my orders, on my ship,” Pellew growled, mind quite caught with the thought. It was a pretty picture, indeed, and if Hornblower were open to discussing it later... He brought his hand down over the crack between Hornblower’s cheeks and revelled in the breathy cry it won him. “You took your mind from your duties, sir, to indulge in fantasies about bending over for ever red-coated man on my ship?”

“Aye-aye, Captain.” He made an obvious effort to control his voice, biting down on his lips as he thrust back at Pellew to stop himself from shouting. Good man. He had always had admirable self control; it was a delight to watch him panting and moaning, his dignity forgotten, tears wet on his reddened face.

“Utterly reprehensible,” Pellew told him, shifting his blows so they rained down on Hornblower’s soft thighs in a sharp, fast tattoo. Hornblower squirmed, trying to force his legs together tighter, to save the tender skin on the inside, Pellew undoing his efforts with each slap, relentless. “And wearing the king’s uniform the whole time. This is the least you deserve.”

“I-- I did worse, Captain. Oh, please, please don’t stop.” Pellew’s hand was starting to numb, the palm bright red, his own breathing heavy, but it felt almost as good as Hornblower must have been feeling, judging by his dreamy expression, the desperate sounds he made as he thrust up to meet each blow. 

“What did you do? Confess it all now,” he rumbled, and watched with no small satisfaction at the way Hornblower clutched at the bed, pushing up with his arse and begging as prettily as if he were still pleading with words.

“I--” It was more a sob than a word, ending on a gasp that was stifled by Hornblower’s shoving his face into the covers. Even as he cried into the blanket he pushed back, didn’t pull away from Pellew’s hand. Pellew shifted, pressing his groin into the side of the bed, allowed himself a moment of rubbing lewdly; both his body and his heart were overtaken with his queer taste, dolling out pain and penance as love, as desire. But they were well matched, he and Hornblower, his lover bending eagerly under his hand, as committed and affectionate in this as in his kisses. 

“I gave you an order, Mister Hornblower,” he snapped, and Hornblower jerked his head back up, gasping, his face ecstatic.

“I seduced a junior officer. In Kingston. I took advantage--” he lost himself, words breaking away with a low moan, expression dazed, his hips rocking him back and forth with hungry little movements. 

“You abused your position?” It was the most absurd thing for him to be snarling about taking advantage of a junior officer in _this_ moment, and the perversity delighted him. 

“Yes, sir,” Hornblower drew the words out with a sharp hiss. His bottom was bright red, the crossing pattern of Pellew’s hand on those cheeks almost gone, blurred into one sore, raised welt; it had to be burning, but the dear lad was as pleased with the pain as he could have ever hoped. 

A bit of mischief rose in him, and he rubbed his stinging palm over Hornblower’s bottom briskly, eliciting a gasp, those narrow hips squirming where they were trapped over the bed. Hornblower responded as wonderfully as he could have wished; remembering to be quiet, the clever boy, hissing through his clenched teeth, jerking down into the bed and then pushing back up.

“Pretty, was he?” Pellew asked, “And so eager to please? You plied his good nature with your authority and attention, rolled him right into your bed?”

“Yes,” Hornblower gasped, “yes, sir, sir, please.” The words were desperate, senseless, endearingly sweet. 

“Please, is it, you wicked boy?” Pellew righted himself, falling back into his rhythm, steady and relentless, his hand cracking down onto Hornblower’s heated bottom. His brain felt like it was on fire; his shoulder burned, and his palm was tingling and numb, swelling with the repeated blows; he felt magnificent, triumphant, his heart ached with love. “Please have mercy on you? After you seduced a junior officer? Such shocking behaviour.”

“Please, please,” Hornblower said, turning his head to stare up at Pellew, his face wet, his expression unfocused and wild, utterly trusting. “Please, Sir, more, please.” 

“Oh-ho, it’s more you want, is it? A guilty conscience, Mister Hornblower? For seducing a junior officer, I should hope so. Do you feel properly ashamed, sir?”

“I do, I do, I did worse,” Hornblower babbled, still staring up, Pellew watching his face each time a smack landed-- a flinch of the eyes, the shock of what had to be remarkable pain by now, but his expression was euphoric.

“Yes? What did you do? Let’s have it out of you, then.”

“I-- oh, Sir. I seduced my captain!”

Oh the darling boy. The darling, wonderful, lovely boy.

“Did you!” He remembered to modulate his own roar just in time, letting it rumble out of him instead of bellow. Hornblower gasped, and Pellew had to force his growl to stay low and menacing, to not betray the fondness he felt. “Lead a decent man into sin, tempted him into buggery? Filled his head with thoughts of you? Oh, this is the worst yet. Can you sink no lower?” 

“I--” Hornblower gasped, and his eyes opened wide and clear. “I lied to you. I set the fire in the hold of the slaver. I-- never told you.” 

Another ringing smack that Hornblower arched his back to meet-- his eyes were streaming, but his voice was thick and lustful. He saw no difference, it seemed, between his sensual misdeeds and this blunt naval fact. It was all confession, all pain and pleasure to him now. 

Pellew was too fond to regret very much the loss of the topic of seduction. Hornblower was drunk on pain and pleasure, writhing, and no mention of slave ships could make it less lovely. He barely remembered the incident, could hardly be expected to think through the haze in front of his eyes, but he dredged it up, the memory. Yes, he remembered. That memory was colored more with relief at retrieving Hornblower and the satisfaction of robbing a privateer of his ship than any censure.

Still he played the cruel captain to the hilt, pinning Hornblower to the bed with a hand on his back. “How dare you, sir. What possible excuse have you, for lying to your superior officer?” 

“-p-penance, Captain-- negligent-- lost the _Marie Gallante_ \--” 

Oh, what was this stirring up out of him, he didn’t imagine for a moment Pellew gave a damn about a little cargo ship-- had it had a grip on the man all this time? He laid down another hard smack and leaned close, snarling into Hornblower’s ear.

“Penance. Penance, you thief? I’m your Captain. It’s mine to punish you, mine to reward you, you think to defy my authority?” With a heave he flipped Hornblower over, tangled legs and all. 

“Captain--” Hornblower looked a very angel, or perhaps a martyr. His expression was beatific even on a face red and tear-streaked, with that plush mouth open to drag in the air. His prick was flushed angry and fully upright, lying against his hollow stomach. “Captain, please--” 

“Mine to punish,” Pellew rasped. “And mine to reward.” 

He took Hornblower by the scalp and dragged him into a kiss, then let his head fall back against the bed-- he reached between Hornblower’s legs and gripped his prick, stroked hard and fast. That long body arched, and now at last, when pain turned to pleasure, Hornblower was pleading for mercy. Oh, it was too lovely, his ‘please’ and that sweet ‘Edward’ and both ‘no’ and ‘yes’ tripping after each other. His hips bucked up, away from the pressure on his much-abused buttocks, into Pellew’s hand, and he whimpered and thrashed and spent himself after what seemed no time at all. 

“On your stomach,” Pellew growled, and Hornblower tried, limply, to turn himself over-- Pellew had to help him, an arm under his shoulder. “Now lie still, damn you.” 

Finally he could unfasten his own trousers, finally he could pay attention to the ache of his own desire. Hornblower’s back heaved up with every deep breath-- his reddened arse was proof of Pellew’s handiwork, and he denied himself only just a little while and then striped that red skin with white beads, biting back a too-loud cry of relief. 

Hornblower made a breathy sound when he felt it, and the sound was not one of protest. 

Pellew’s legs had gone unsteady under him-- his peak had swamped him. The pleasure and lassitude were too strong, he couldn’t maintain his feet, and sat heavily on the bed beside his panting lover. 

He rested a weary hand on Hornblower’s back, could feel the ribs, all the bumps of his spine. Hornblower’s breathing was moderating a little, but he could still feel the heave of his lungs, too. 

He soothed that shuddering body, stroking his hand down Hornblower's back, over and over until the younger man was breathing easy. "All done now," he murmured, and, with one hand around his shoulders, coaxed him up to lie fully on the bed. "All done. You bore it like a man."

He tenderly removed the shoes from Hornblower's feet, untangled his trousers and smallclothes from around his knees, using his own handkerchief to clean away the worst of the spend from Hornblower's back, and-- rolling him half over-- his stomach. The shirt, smoothed down, was not quite long enough to preserve his modesty, but Pellew straightened it for him all the same, that he should not be lying on a fold of fabric.

Hornblower let him do it, watching him silently; his face was dazed, his eyes soft and shining.

"My brave boy," Pellew crooned, stroking his cheek. "My poppet, my little darling, you've done so well." He was half conscious that he was speaking as he would to a small child. But it had been the right thing to say-- a sweet, silly smile came across Hornblower's face, and he snuggled his face against Pellew's hand lovingly.

There was a giddiness that came after pain stopped; Pellew had been birched before and felt it, and had seen its effect from outside more often. It was a euphoria like drunkeness, a profound release from care and strain. But this was more than that; this was something else, something that had always been there, something unleashed by Hornblower’s profound relaxation.

Pellew knew it only instinctively. He could not have put it into words, but he had seen something in this man, some part of him that wanted more than anything to be coddled like a baby, loved entirely, cared for entirely. There was some part of Pellew that reached out just as urgently to answer the need. 

"All over, now; you are safe. Here is your daddy-- here I am." He knew, distantly and unimportantly, that this was a shocking thing to say; it was difficult to give it much thought, with Hornblower snugged up against his thigh and beaming as Pellew untied his hair and let it fall loose. Pellew crooned nonsense in a tone as gentle now as it had been rough in the heat of passion; his hand drifted across that fine-boned face and Hornblower mouthed for it, caught the tip of his finger and sucked sleepily. Perhaps he did not even know he was doing it.

"My baby," Pellew murmured. "My own sweet boy."

Hornblower smiled at him around his finger, open and adoring and so sublimely happy, and his eyes flickered shut and left him still smiling. In a moment his lips slackened; he was asleep.

Pellew sat by him for a long while, looking down at him; he only moved when Hornblower started to shiver, to cover him with the coverlet and draw the bedcurtain.

He busied himself with cleaning up, working himself over with his handkerchief, wet from the basin. The room smelled too much of the last half hour, and he had no faith in the innkeeper not to gossip-- he threw open the window to let in the bracing winter air. He started to change his clothes-- and hissed, because his skin was still damp from his sponge bath and the chill from the window cut him through. But that cold breeze cleared his head; he could think again, could see the world without the filter of a soft glow. He held his hand up to the night air a moment longer than he left the rest of him exposed; the palm was red and swollen and aching pleasantly, a steady throb that would be stiffness and tenderness in the morning. 

Dressed and sure there was no hint to show what he’d been up to, he called for a servant-- when the innkeeper's boy arrived, he told him high-handedly that he had a guest this evening; that they would want breakfast at nine o'clock, and would he be so good as to fetch a deck of cards and make up a cot? Yes, and clear away those supper things.

It was easy to be high-handed, assured, although he was plagued with doubt. A captain learned that fast enough, or else he never made it far. He watched unconcernedly as the cot was made, took the cards, made much over the nuisance of not having a piquet deck, and shooed the boy away again with a shilling:

"And if you disturb my friend and I at cards tonight I'll know why," he growled as the boy retreated. Pellew's reputation for temper was not unknown in these parts: the boy's eyes widened and he trotted away as if there had been a tiger in the room.

Only when the patter of his feet had died away and the door was locked again did Pellew sit down at the table and let the strange weariness take him over.

His glory had faded. He was as melancholy as some blasted poet on a moor. That was usually the case after he had indulged himself, as a surfeit of pleasure ebbed and left discontent behind it. Tonight it was worse than usual, because he had it in mind that he should be a little ashamed of himself-- had a niggling fear that he had imposed much too much on Hornblower.

A man deserved to be treated like a man-- not like a youth and not, for God's sake, like an infant. It was one thing to think fondly to Hornblower at a slim eighteen; another thing to speak the words 'your daddy', 'my baby'. That would have been no more right at eighteen than at twenty-six. That he had enjoyed it so thoroughly was the hell of it. He had felt so content pampering Hornblower, soothing him to sleep. And Hornblower seemed to have gained a taste for it, which would be his fault too.

He was glaring at the wall in a properly sullen state when a noise brought him back to the world. There was a stir in the bed-- the curtain swayed and then drew back, admitting Hornblower's head and shoulders. He was blinking owlishly; his curly hair was a tousled haystack, and Pellew found himself forgetting that he was sullen, and smiling instead.

Hornblower was fully himself again after his rest: "God, it's cold!" were his first words, and Pellew was on his feet in a second to shut the window. The room had chilled considerably while he had been staring down the wall; he hadn’t felt it. He stoked the fire, brightening the place, the light of the flames gleaming off Hornblower’s charming mess of hair.

"Not as cold as spray off the Atlantic, eh?" he said, trying to be jovial, and went hunting for his slippers and silk dressing gown. "There, put these on, no need to get frostbite ashore."

Hornblower sat on the edge of the bed to poke his feet into the slippers-- and winced, and then grinned. "I won't forget this night in a hurry; I shall think of it every time I sit down to whist. Or sit down at all." He got to his feet and pulled the dressing gown around his half-naked body with a shiver, his long legs sticking out from under it from a near indecent height, and only remembered a few seconds later to be self conscious. "Which is to say-- I mean--"

"You mean you asked for it, bought and paid for it," Pellew growled, but Hornblower heard the fondness in his voice and there was a smile on his face even as he blushed. "...Are you well, now? Besides the state of your stern end, I mean."

"Oh, yes." Hornblower's face lit up. "I feel as if I've been scrubbed clean. The world seems clearer and better; I feel as if gravity is not so heavy." He reached out to pull Pellew into his arms, to kiss his hair-- and blast him but he really had gotten taller, standing several inches above Pellew. The position let him kiss Pellew's forehead, which he did, several times. "I have never felt so-- there was pleasure with the pain. And then after." Hornblower coughed and turned away suddenly, stepping out of his arms and pacing a bit, stopping awkwardly when the too-short slippers flapped against the floor. His face and neck were flushing red. "When you said. I mean. What you said--"

"Go on," Pellew drawled, composed although all his doubts were flooding back like water through a shothole.

"When you called me-- that. I had never felt so safe. I was so happy," Hornblower marveled, and then frowned. "But I suppose you must think me the worst coward."

Perhaps that was what Pellew should have felt, in having seen Hornblower cast away all his strength and crawl helplessly for the protection of a stronger man; somehow, that was not at all the impression he had received. He tried the idea for size; found it didn’t answer; discarded it. "Nothing of the sort," he said gruffly.

"I am so grateful to you." Hornblower came back to him, twined around him again, clinging tight. "So grateful. Oh, Captain."

"Not that, by God, not any more tonight." Pellew tried to sound disapproving, but he had his arms around Hornblower and that must have taken some of the sting out of it. 

"Should I call you my daddy?" Hornblower teased daringly, and the words inspired an altogether less innocent feeling in Pellew now than they had in that sleepy interlude on the bed not long ago.

"Not if you want to stay on your feet and out of that bed, you shouldn’t," Pellew rumbled.

Enheartened by not having been really rebuffed, Hornblower offered: "Ned, then."

"Hmph," Pellew said, secretly pleased with the feeling of Hornblower as his equal again, with the ease that Hornblower slipped from sweet, yielding lover to solid sea-officer. It was remarkable how the strength of the man made the submission of the lover all the more precious. "I think you'll come to resent me, fussing you like some old mother," he said, trying to remind himself of his worry.

"I think I won't," Hornblower said simply, and sounded as if he meant it.

"Hmph," he said again. "I had a deck of cards brought while you were lazing in bed; come drink a glass with me and we can have a few hands. You play piquet?"

Hornblower's matter-of-fact nod told Pellew a great deal-- he did, and he played it with the same tactical precision he deployed at whist.

"Then come sit down with me and play." Hornblower winced despite himself at the words 'sit down', and Pellew could not help a chuckle. "--bring a pillow from the bed and put it on your chair. It will help a little." They untangled from one another, and Hornblower retrieved the pillow and a blanket and set himself up a chair while Pellew set to work weeding out the lower cards from the deck. 

He had been trying to hold onto his sullenness, treasure his melancholy, but it was entirely too easy to enjoy himself in Hornblower's company. Hornblower seemed to sense it, and quite unfairly refused to let him wallow, teasing him, touching him, smiling at him at every turn, bringing the warmth out in him as well as the fire chased away the chill. Quite hypocritical of him, really, because Pellew knew that Hornblower himself could get into a powerful sulk when crossed. But even that thought, of Hornblower hoarding all the misery and denying Pellew his fair share, made him laugh. So it was no good; he had to give in to cheerfulness.

By the conclusion of the first hand’s declaration they were chatting about old times and had gotten comfortably back onto the subjects of dinner, of possible war on the continent. Pellew said something sly about the 43rd, and then reached out under the table to hook Hornblower's ankle with his when it looked like he intended to take it too hard.

"No, this peace won't last long. And you won't be left on the beach; I'll recommend you most strongly to the Admiralty. It is shameful they didn't confirm your promotion; absolutely shameful." Hornblower had run him out of hearts; he laid a discard with force, as if to emphasize his point. 

"Edward-" Hornblower began reproachfully, and Pellew cut him off.

"Now, Horatio, this is vanity," he said loftily. "That you think yourself such a charmer I should risk a command on you just because you fell into my lap. I have the good of the service in my mind."

"Hmph," said Hornblower, in a near perfect imitation of himself, and then looked so startled that Pellew realized it had been unintentional. He tapped Hornblower's slippered foot playfully with his own.

"You see there? If you can clear your throat like that you are more than ready to command a ship."

"If stern throat clearing is the measure of command, I wonder you are not a vice admiral," returned Hornblower innocently as he took his trick, and then grinned bashfully at his own boldness and at Pellew's stormy look.

"Look here; you will be a commander soon, and I have no doubt you'll reach post captain quick enough after that. But while I outrank you, I'll make use of it! A bit more respect there."

Hornblower was gracious enough not to bring up that he had been told not five minutes earlier to refrain from calling him 'captain', though he still grinned. "Orders, sir?" He led again-- hearts. He meant to score for _capot_ to make up for his poor declaration, and Pellew wasn’t going to let him have it. 

"My first is that you stay the night here. You have some nerve going out in the cold and causing your friends so much worry over you." Pellew discarded again.

"Aye-aye, sir," Hornblower said promptly, trying to stop grinning, but his eyes still twinkled, his cheeks still dimpled up. "And what else, sir?"

"You will eat a large breakfast with me. A large one, sir. I'll be paying close attention. And then the first thing after that, you'll go out and get your coat out of pawn."

"Aye-aye, sir."

"And then you'll tell me what you're smirking about." Hornblower was not smirking. He was glowing again, his face wreathed in a silly smile that Pellew really was helpless to resist.

"I was thinking how much I like it when you fuss me like an old mother," Hornblower said, with such happiness in his voice that there was nothing for it-- Pellew had to put his cards down on the table and go kiss him, and the hand was never completed after all.


End file.
